


I'll Be Here

by trashprinxe



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Graves gets to be the little spoon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Spooning, they're both so touch-starved okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashprinxe/pseuds/trashprinxe
Summary: Graves awakens from yet another nightmare of his captivity. This time, he has someone to comfort him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolf953](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf953/gifts).



> Briar and I were talking about how Credence is actually taller than Graves and I said "imagine Graves as the little spoon" and thus, this drabble was born.
> 
> This is obviously post-movie. Graves and Credence are living and recovering together.
> 
> This work is un-beta'd so forgive any minor typos.

_ It was dark. It was always so dark. At times, Graves was afraid that this dark was all he'd ever know. He lived for the mornings when the hatch would open, and for the briefest moment he'd be allowed a glimpse of light and offered some meager scraps of food, some water, just enough to keep him alive. He did not know why Grindelwald bothered, at this point. The first month had been little else but torture, an attempt to create enough cracks in his Occlumency to allow Grindelwald glimpses of what he needed to know to impersonate him as accurately as possible. But as the time wore on, the tortures subsided, and Graves was left with nothing but the darkness and his own thoughts. Time lost all meaning; he may well have been in that hole his entire life.  _

He is back there again, swallowed up by the overwhelming blackness. His own pulse roaring in his ears, hunger gnawing away at him like a ravenous beast. No matter where he turns there is nothing to see, or perhaps he has become nothingness himself. His hands reach out blindly, finally meeting rough stone that scrapes his hands as he drags them across it, trying to find anything, a foothold, a door, but of course none exists. There is no way out. He can batter his fists against the walls until they scream in protest, can kick at them until bones break, but there will never be a way out. All it will be is this. Forever. 

He wakes with a scream clawing its way from his throat. He wakes with darkness crouching on his chest, preventing his breath, paralyzing him. He wakes with tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and he berates himself for being so weak. Surely he, Percival Graves, is above nightmares. Surely he— Auror, Director— is not afraid of the dark. 

But he is. He is so afraid.

By the time the weight on his chest has eased, his eyes have become adjusted to the darkness and he can see that he is in his room. Safe. He’s safe. His wounds have long since healed, he is clean-shaven, bathed, far away from that filthy pit. But it still feels so close, like at any moment he could fall right back into it. (He carries it with him wherever he goes). 

A sound in the doorway causes him to start violently, but it’s only Credence, staring at him with concern etched all over his lovely features, hair tousled and eyes bleary with sleep. Graves relaxes slightly, sits up, motions that the boy may enter. Credence does so, tentatively, bare feet making hardly a sound on the plush carpet.

“I heard you cry out,” Credence says, “I thought…” He does not finish the sentence; he does not need to. Graves is not the only one living with Grindelwald hovering over his shoulders.

“It was just a dream,” Graves says simply, casually, attempting to shrug it away with a dismissive wave of his hand. Credence seems unconvinced; Graves must look worse than he thinks. He frowns and looks away from the boy, unconsciously balling the blankets into his fists. He feels like a foolish child.

Something makes Credence brave; he climbs onto the bed to sit in front of Graves, hands remaining respectfully in his lap as he settles on his knees. He studies Graves in that careful, quiet way of his, never quite meeting his eyes, and Graves feels unbelievably exposed beneath that stare. Credence reaches out a tentative hand, thinks better of it, and replaces it in his lap. His shoulders hunch, but he does not move away.

“Tell me about it,” he prompts gently.

Graves opens his mouth, changes his mind, shuts it again. His eyes darken, and he blinks rapidly. 

Credence lets out a sympathetic sound. His eyes are so unbearably kind. Graves feels like a piece of china with a hairline crack— any moment he might just shatter. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. He should have died down in that hole; they should have let him die. There would have been more dignity in it.

Almost as if he can hear Graves’ thoughts, Credence moves to sit beside him. His pale, scarred hand reaches out to smooth back the errant hairs that have fallen around Graves’ face, and something in the older man collapses at his touch. Graves leans forward, head falling against Credence’s shoulder, and he is shaking, shaking as Credence continues to smooth back his hair. Credence has never seen him like this, he thinks that no one has. The thought fills Credence with some unnamed emotion that swells inside him and threatens to burst forth, he pulls Graves into his arms. Graves clings to Credence like a lost child, still trembling, finally giving in to all that has happened in the last six months. If tears begin to fall, if small sobs escape him, Credence doesn’t comment on it, and for that Graves will forever be grateful. 

“I dream about it,” Credence says after a moment in his low, rough tone. “About being that—  _ thing _ . I dream about Ma. About how I— and Chastity.” He rests his head on top of Graves’, continues, “I dream about the Aurors, and what they did to me. How much it hurt. I dream of Grindelwald’s hands.” 

Graves pulls back, looks at Credence. The boy looks old beyond his years, and for a moment there is no barrier between them. No age, no power, no difference. Just two broken men, doing what they can to heal alongside one another. Just two people, desperate for connection. Credence reaches up to cup Graves’ face in his palm, gently traces the bruises under his eyes with the pad of his thumb. This time Graves is the one leaning into his touch, looking at Credence like he’s a miracle. He is.

“Credence,” Graves says, and nothing else. The name falls from his lips like a prayer, reverent and full of wonder. He leans in until they are breathing the same air, and rests his forehead against Credence’s. His eyes slip shut.

They sit like that for several heartbeats, simply gaining reassurance from the presence of the other. Credence’s hand finds Graves’ and clasps it. Graves’ thumb traces gentle patterns across Credence’s palm. When they finally lay back Credence eases Graves down, and he allows it, too tired to care about pride. Credence’s body fits to his from behind, and for once in his life Graves feels smaller than someone else— cared for, protected. He thinks it may be the nicest thing he’s ever felt.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Credence whispers into the shell of his ear, and Graves lets himself slip away, cradled in the harbor of the other man’s arms.

He doesn’t have any more nightmares.


End file.
